I grew up in a great neighborhood. First of all, our block had a cul du sac, which meant that we didn’t get much traffic (except for the kind that thought there was an exit out the back). Secondly, we had a really cool hill (both on the street AND in our driveway), so we spent most of our summer days hurtling our bikes, skateboards, Big Wheels and roller skates (not blades, thank you very much) down the hill at *death-defying* speeds. When we weren’t tempting fate, we were doing “bike rallies” — which really just consisted of a bunch of us going ’round and ’round and ’round the “big block,” hooting and hollering (to beckon kids out of their houses) while blasting some Gordon Lightfoot song on our AM transistor radios and clothes-pinning playing cards to our spokes so we’d sound like ‘motorcycles.

It was great fun, and we never tired of the monotony.

Unless we were doing something else – like playing kickball (running the bases we’d painted on the street in reflective spray paint), tag football, HORSE, hide-and-go-seek (in the dark, naturally), or – on windy days – flying kites from Mr. Taylor’s front lawn.

His house was prime real estate for a number of reasons:

1. It was situated at the intersection of a “T”, meaning that you could run up the block (to launch your kite) and end up straight on his lawn (which was on a hill, so you could comfortably recline on your elbows.)
2. It had super thick St. Augustine grass (which was not particularly soft, like Bermuda or Fescue, but did create a nice cushion.)
3. He had apricot and plum trees in the backyard (so we didn’t have to go home when we got hungry.)

Yes, our neighborhood was quite active, but also competitive. With a nearly equal ratio of boys-to-girls (boys being older), that meant there were lots of Barbies getting kidnapped (mine, mostly) and flour bombs being dropped on houses, and mock wars being fought in the streets. It also meant that kite flying was not just for fun: It was serious business, not to be entered into lightly. Sometimes, we would have “dog fights” at low-altitudes, where the “loser” found his line sliced or his kite torpedoed into a tree. The winner would ink a skull and crossbones on his kite to signal another kill.

To up the ante, eventually, the boys learned that fishing line presented a greater defense to the opposition, as it was much harder to see, didn’t snap so easily, AND had the added bonus of distance! You could fly your kite A LOT FARTHER on fishing line, than you could on standard kite string. Some boys were very smart and ran their kites from fishing rods (for easy “reel-based retrieval”); others used wooden dowels, or just held the spool in hand.

Never one to miss out on a great idea, I checked around and learned that the best line was something called “100# Test,” and it came on “450 yard” spools. If memory serves, it was about $1.99 at the corner Thrifty Store.

Not one to let St. Augustine grow beneath my feet, I hopped on my trusty bike and headed to Thrifty to pick-up my very own secret weapon. I wanted to be the first girl to beat a boy (which did happen, by the way…except that it was Howard, and most people weren’t very impressed by this victory, but that’s not the point of the story…) Anyway, at first blush, the idea seemed reasonable enough: Find the fishing line marked “100# test, 450 yd length” and buy it. Unfortunately, when I got there, I learned that there were many different KINDS of line (nylon, braided, salt water, fresh water, fly-fishing, stream) AND, they were all priced quite differently. As a matter of fact, *some of them* cost as much as $5.00 per spool – for only 50 yards!

After about 20 minutes of indecision, I determined that the most important factor was PRICE, at which point, I narrowed it down to the nylon line and grabbed for the appropriate spool. Which would have been the end of the story. Except…I noticed that, FOR THE VERY SAME PRICE, I could get something called “80# Test” and it had (get this): 975 YDS of line!!! In other words, whoever was smart enough to fly their kite from it would SURELY win the neighborhood award for “greatest distance.”

The case was settled and I bought my fishing line. I couldn’t WAIT to attach it to my kite and show the boys how it was really done.

I can remember the day like it was yesterday: There were the proverbial fluffy white clouds dotting a cerulean blue sky and it was just windy enough to launch the kite, but warm enough to bask in the shade on Mr. Taylor’s lawn. I took my “Sky Spy” kite (replete with new 80# test fishing line) out into the street…assumed the position…and ran! Soon enough, the kite was aloft, and I was gleefully unspooling yard-after-yard of fishing line. My kite was the envy of the block…at least, as far as anyone could tell…you see…at some point, I had let out nearly ALL of my line, meaning my kite was nothing more than a tiny, 2-eyed speck in a big, blue sky.

This was great fun. For about 15 minutes. (Seriously, how long SHOULD you fly a kite?)

Soon enough, moms started bellowing out their front doors for their kids to “come home for dinner!” Mine was no exception and, not one to disobey, I immediately set about reeling my kite in. As it turns out, my brother was ALSO flying HIS kite, so we both had to bring our Sky Spies back to earth. Misery loves company.

Except…

• Did I mention that my brother was using 100# test/450 yd fishing line on his kite?
• Did I mention that he wasn’t shooting for a “distance” record that particular day?
• Do you remember the “rock incident” from Big Sur?

Well…he got his kite down pretty fast…in like…five minutes, and quick-as-a-whip, he was ready to head home to wash up for dinner. As a matter of fact, EVERYONE had their kites in hand pretty fast. Except me***

*** I refer you to the aforementioned 975 yard spool.

Needless to say, the task of winding my kite back to Mr. Taylor’s front lawn was a daunting (and lengthy) one, and soon enough, my brother was back to gloat tell me that I was “in really big trouble with mom and dad.” I asked for his help, but I’m *pretty sure* I didn’t get it. He might even have laughed at me (but I don’t want to fib if I’m not sure.)

These are NOT my hands. That is pretty much how my line looked, though.

Anyway…there I sat…for 1, solid hour. By this time, of course, it was dark. The street lights were on. I was alone…and YES, my kite was still aloft — SOMEWHERE OUT THERE. Lord only knows how, because it didn’t seem to be windy anymore.

Which might explain what happened next: I’m fairly certain I was within 200 short yards of retrieving my kite, when the darnedest thing happened: It began innocently enough with a tiny “plink” and then…quicker than you can say “I spy a loose kite in the sky”…the tension on my spool was gone…and the remaining line inexplicably drifted to the pavement…and across the treetops, front lawns, power lines, streets, and chimneys.

Hmm…Let me see if I got this straight: I spent ONE SOLID HOUR reeling in my kite, risking life, limb AND grounding, JUST so I could LOSE MY FREAKING KITE SOMEWHERE OVER BOYAR PARK (1 mile away?)

In a word: YES.

In retrospect, the moral of that story is pretty simple: MORE IS NOT ALWAYS BETTER AND SOMETIMES MORE IS LESS.

The corollary is: CHEAPER ISN’T ALWAYS BEST.

So, how do I apply this to my Bariatric After Life™? Well, just like I tried to get the most bang for my buck with that blasted fishing line (without fully understanding its usage or considering whether or not it even made sense), I have tried to do the same thing with food. There have been times where I have tried to “get away” with eating things that are “not as healthy as other things,” (like: sugar free cookies), and there are times that I ended up eating WAY TOO MANY of those things that are not as healthy as other things (like sugar free gummy bears)…and well…I paid the price. I learned the hard way that before you choose a fishing line (or food), you really need to understand HOW YOU INTEND TO USE IT and whether it makes sense.

I guess you could say, you need to choose the right “pound test” for the job!

In my defense (thanks, in no small part to brilliant marketing) I really believed that a lot of those food choices were equal to the alternatives (even BETTER) – just like that fishing line seemed equal to the alternative (even BETTER) — but the reality was, I lost sight of what I was really trying to achieve; I forgot what was reasonable; I forgot the real goal.

At the end of the day, any kite-flyer worth his salt will probably tell you that the goal to successful flight is MANAGEABILITY. It’s not always about distance or height – yes, you can do tricks – it’s about maintaing control of the kite. It’s about proving that you are in charge — not the other way around.

Weight management is the same way: It’s not about some magical number on the scale, or some teeny number on your clothes. It’s not about weighing what you weighed in high school, or squishing your shrinkly butt into those acid-washed “mom-jeans” from the 80′s. It’s about MANAGING your health and feeing good doing it.

You know…as I look back at that summer…so long ago on Mr. Taylor’s front lawn…I realize my kite was flying ME. Just like when I ate those things that seemed okay.

These days, I’m flying MYSELF — Oh, maybe not as “high” as other folks, but at least I’m airborne, and — hey, my life is manageable. At least for today.

Now, where did I put my black marker? I think I need to add a skull and crossbones to my scale…I killed another pound today!

When I was about six, my parents took my big brother and me camping at Big Sur. If you’ve never been there, it’s a stunning area on the central California coast, just off picturesque Highway 1 (Pacific Coast Highway). There are towering redwoods (though, not the tallest on the coast — those are further north in Humboldt) and lush ferns (think: Jurassic Park or Return of the Jedi, and you’re close), babbling brooks…and WILD BOARS. Yes, wild boars. My big brother, Greg, used to traumatize me by taking me on *long*  hikes *way out in the forest* and convincing me that there were wild boars hiding  in every burned out tree trunk — or, if they weren’t there at the moment, they’d be returning any second (and they would probably eat me!)

Despite the wild boars (and scary big brother) Big Sur was wonderful and we vacationed there several summers.

Side note: My mom (God love her) was not the…um…er…outdoorsy type, though she gamely tried to be (so I’ll give her credit). On many trips, we all slept in a big (heavy) canvas tent with a little porta-potty just inside the “door,” so it was pretty *rough.* Being an RV person myself, I can understand why tent camping might not be the most inviting thing to a girly-girl, but I think my mom *might* have taken that whole “comforts-of-home” thing a tad far…she actually packed her LIGHT UP MAKE-UP MIRROR  so she could do a “full-face” each morning. I am not kidding you! This mirror was like one of those old-school beauty mirrors with bulbs dow either side — AND (since this was the deluxe model) — three lighting conditions: Indoor/Fluorescent, Outdoor (camping), and Evening. I loved that mirror and she always looked beautiful in it, but it is sorta funny to think back now and imagine doing that myself. Okay, maybe I would…

But, back to my little story. On this particular trip, my dad decided it would be a great idea for us to hike up to the “famed” Big Sur waterfall. No, this is not the ‘really’ famous Pfeiffer Falls, but rather, the smaller, less notable, but still pretty ‘Big Sur Waterfall.” it was a very easy 1/2 mile hike, but to my little 6-year old legs, it felt like a full day’s walk (which meant that my dad would have to carry me on his back sometimes…)

Less-Famous Big Sur Waterfall

Well, after about 7 hours (or 30 minutes, depending upon who you talk to), we arrived at our destination: BIG SUR FALLS! My dad went right up to it and let the water *dangerously* run into his hand! Meanwhile, my mother kept yelling at him to ‘be careful,’ and ‘come back!’ While this was going on, my brother had found some neat, flat rocks to walk out onto, which put him sort of towards the middle of the stream. He was very brave and, as much as I wanted to go, my mom wouldn’t let me.

This disappointed me to no end and I was completely inconsolable.

Until my dad started throwing rocks into the creek. Naturally, *I* started throwing rocks, and we had great fun.

Kerplunk! Sploosh! Splash! Kathunk! Whee!

And, just when I thought life couldn’t get any better, my dad encouraged me to throw “overhand.”

Now, up to this point, I’d been throwing underhand (granny-style) because that’s what 6-year old girls do. I told him I couldn’t throw overhand and didn’t want to. But he insisted that I “at least try.” So, I did. I found a really great rock, took aim at the stream and…let her rip.

I would love to tell you my aim was true and that I hit the stream right where I targeted, but that isn’t *exactly* what happened. No…actually, I beaned my brother in the back of the head (and he bled…a little). That’s right, I hurled a pitch that would make Fernando Valenzuela proud — right at his noggin’.

Oh. Brother.

Not ironically, Greg was extremely unhappy about this event and, as far as I can remember, called me a really bad name. Something like, ‘Stupid!’ — which is as coarse as it got in my house. Maybe I deserved it…a little…but I didn’t mean to hit him. I was AIMING somewhere else!

Well…I was totally devastated after I hit my brother with that rock. Absolutely demolished…and I cried and cried and cried (until I started hiccuping and had to stop because my mom said she didn’t want to hear another peep out of me, and you KNOW how that goes.) Eventually, I got over it (although, I think my brother is still a bit steamed about it to this day) –– AND –– I did finally learn how to throw OVERHAND.

Which brings me to my point: Sometimes, we MUST try things that we aren’t really sure we can accomplish…even though we might fail…because, sometimes (maybe often), we WILL fail.

Like, trying to lose weight. How many diets did I try (and fail) before weight loss surgery? Here’s a hint: About the same number of pitches I threw as pitcher for my summer league girls softball team, the Bat-Her-Ups. Yeah, I know, stupid name, but we had super cute uniforms – blue and green polo stripes with white collars – don’t ask. To be clear, it was soft pitch, and it was underhand, BUT when I was not pitching, I played 2nd base, which meant that I DID have to throw OVERHAND, so at SOME POINT I had to figure out how to do it, right? Let’s just say it’s a skill I acquired somewhere between the time my brother threatened to hit ME with a rock and about age 9.

How did I learn this particular skill? By trying — over and over and over — until I got it right. True, I was never a STRONG thrower (so, putting me in right field was a horrible idea without TWO cut-off men), and the ball often went straight into the ground, but thanks to my “pitch back” in the front yard, and some much-needed instruction from my pop, I got fairly accurate at making the ball go where I pointed my toe.

Did you catch that? I learned to point my toe where i wanted the ball to go.

Guess what? I kinda learned the same skill in my Bariatric After Life™! I  learned to look where I want to go (towards healthy weight management) — NOT where I DON’T want to go (towards uncontrollable weight regain) — and guess what? That is where I go (mostly).

However, when I take my eye off the ball (stop journaling my foods, stop working out regularly, stop paying attention to my behaviors, etc.), I veer off course…and the ball goes straight into the ground — OR, I hit MYSELF in the head! D’oh! Fortunately, I get it over the plate more than in the dirt, so I’ll consider my RBI pretty good (and improving)!

Anyway, let me leave you with these two things:

1) Big brothers can be mean, but you shouldn’t hit them in the head with rocks, and
2) Weight management IS possible, if you learn  proper form and practice regularly.

Just like throwing overhand.

Hey guys!

I’ll be speaking at my 3rd WLS Vegas Meet & Greet (2nd for WLSFA) in May. Are you coming?

Here are the event details:

What: 2012 WLSFA Mother of All Meet & Greets: Kick It Up a Notch!
When: May 18-20, 2012
Where: BALLY’S Hotel & Casino (on the Strip, baby!)
Price: $110/Person

Discount Room Rates Available at Ballys.com

Here is what I’ll be talking about:

KICK IT WITH CARI

Whether you want to Kick some bad habits to the curb, Kick Start some healthy new ones, or Kick Around some fresh ideas for living a happy Bariatric After Life™, I’ll have you Kicking up your Heels with an energetic, informative and inspiring talk. You’ll get a real Kick out of my interactive presentation and might even get that Kick in the Pants you’ve been needing! So, come Kick It with ME. You’ll be glad you did!

I’ll see ya in Vegas, Baby!

In case you didn’t know…

When I’m not trying on new shoes or fixing my hair, I’m busy “kicking it” with Dr. Connie Stapleton as one-half of A Post-Op & A Doc – A dynamic duo that brings a unique brand of funny-but-firm wisdom to a hungry audience. We’ll BOTH be in Vegas, so please be sure to check us out!

Have you watched our videos?
Have you friended us yet?

A (Not-so-brief) lesson on PERSONALITIES (aka “Better pull up a sofa and some protein before you read this.”)

I am a study in contrasts. I am a black and white thinker who loves to live in the grey area. I am all or nothing, but want it all. I am happy-go-lucky, and I am a worry-wart. I am optimistically pessimistic. I am positively negative. I am certain I can do anything but afraid that I can’t. I hate being a procrastinator so much I bought a book to fix it…and never finished it. I am the most social loner you will ever meet. I need to be loved deeply but don’t love deeply, unless I love you deeply. I forgive everyone but myself. I plan everything – including spontaneity, which I dislike. I’m sure I can go forever; until I stop, and then I’m sure I’ll never start again. I can be deeply shallow and deeply deep. I forget to remember things that I remembered never to forget, and I remember things that I was supposed to forget. I remember things exactly as they weren’t and have a hard time remembering things as they might have been. I laugh as hard as I cry and often cry laughing. I am skilled at making people laugh and am equally capable of making them cry (but, as an adult, have learned NOT to do that). I am impatiently patient and patiently impatient. I go when I should stop and stop when I should go. I believe that if less is more, then more is better and less is just unnecessary.

When things happen to me, I’m convinced that I deserved it, but I am frustrated when I don’t deserve what happened to me. I love to be the center of attention, but hate parties. I need to be alone, but I hate being lonely. I am an enigmatic foregone conclusion.

I am maddeningly complex, yet deceptively simple.

I am a sanguine. Ahhh, but it’s not that simple. You see I also have a “melancholy” side! What that means is, my “happy” car will be traveling down the road of life (without a care in the world) and then SUDDENLY (without warning, I might add), I’ll hit a patch of “sad” and my happy car quickly hits the sad skids. I hate it when that happens and…gosh..I never seem to see it coming. So, this means that I am a certified Sanguine-Melancholy (not to be confused with a melancholy-sanguine, which is an entirely different animal).

WAIT! Right about now, you’re probably asking: “What the heck is this ‘sanguine-melancholy’ junk?” Well, if you must know, “Sanguine” and “Melancholy” are two of the four temperaments (also known as humors) identified by Hippocrates (many moons ago.) In those days great thinkers were convinced that each personality type was directly connected to a surplus (or deficiency) of a particular bodily fluid (e.g., blood, bile or phlegm. Sorry, but it’s true), and that balancing these fluids would make people more emotionally stable. These four temperaments (sanguine, melancholy, choleric and phlegmatic) were widely accepted as a complete way to define every human being…until the early 80’s, when one was added to the mix (supine), but since I don’t know much about it, I’m going to ignore it in this post.

Suffice it to say, I have only my very best friend (Jan) on the entire planet to blame for this maddening (yet limited) knowledge of personality traits, for if she (Jan) hadn’t told me, I’d never have been bothered by it. Likewise…I’d never have been helped. So, you see, having knowledge of the basic “temperaments” is quite useful, because it can really help someone better understand someone else, even if that knowledge can sometimes be painful.

First of all, I’m a big believer in “intention.” Learning these character traits has helped me to better understand people who have different traits than my own, because I can see that my intention for doing something is often quite different than someone else’s. In other words, if I do something a certain way, my intention might be to hurt, yet someone else (or a different personality type) would do the same thing, but instead, be doing it without a thought of whether it will hurt.

Let me get this out there now: Anyone who is not a sanguine or a melancholy is cranky and uptight.

Okay, that’s not “completely” true….Cholerics and Phlegmatics are not (necessarily) cranky and uptight…I just feel that way because I’m not like them. But, it is helpful to note that cholerics (and to a lesser extent, phlegmatics) make the world go around because they keep law and order and make sure that things get done. Heck, they usually MAKE the laws and DEFINE the order. That means: We need them; they are great (and powerful) leaders for lots of reasons, mostly because they don’t allow silly emotion to muddle their decision-making, but also because they tend to be tenacious and energetic. You can see why I have a little difficulty interacting with them…they are

TOTALLY UNLIKE ME.

Hmmm…How can I explain this better? If you think of people like dogs (!!!), cholerics are like a dog that won’t let go of a bone (it IS, after all, HIS). Phlegmatic dogs will bury their bones (albeit, in a secret place) for safe-keeping and future need. The sanguine will loyally follow you to the ends of the earth (without really knowing why) while the melancholy will plunge into an endless fit of despair when you leave (because you are most likely never coming back).

Remember, I’m the sanguine(melancholy) which means that I always want you with me because if you leave you’re never coming back, but if you stay, you need to be nice, and oh yeah, sometimes I need to be alone and I worry that I will hurt your feelings.

Seems perfectly reasonable to me…except that CHOLERICS are the bane of my existence.

There, I said it. Happy?

Just when I think I’ve gotten everything ironed out, I add a NEW choleric to my world and end up going through the whole learning process all over again! To be fair, I can be equally maddening to cholerics, but I am not going to give them equal billing here…on my blog.

Here’s my story: For pretty much my entire life, I’ve been plagued by cholerics…starting with my daddy (who was actually a choleric-melancholy, but don’t get me started on that.)

As a rule, cholerics and phlegmatics approach things based upon what they know to be facts. They are not emotional about decisions; they make them because they are right. (Sounds very fair and reasonable…don’t you think?) They do the right thing and expect you to do the right thing – without excuse or explanation.

I, on the other hand (being the sanguine-melancholy) make a decision based upon how I and others will FEEL about it. (Don’t ask me how I know what they will feel; that’s part of my mystique). And yeah, I agree that it all seems sorta…silly…

After all…we’re talking about validating decision making based upon Fact vs. Feeling.

Given those two options, I’m betting most would choose fact over feeling, but – there’s a little more to it than that.

Let me toss out another metaphor: If we’re talking about cups, the choleric’s cup is always the biggest and is always overflowing. They really don’t consider whether anyone else even has a cup. The phlegmatic’s cup has just the right amount of liquid in it (whatever that amount should be.) The sanguine’s cup is always full, while the melancholy isn’t sure he even HAS a cup.

• The choleric says: Do it my way. My way is the right way and there is no other way.
• The phlegmatic says: I’m doing it this way because it is the right way to do it.
• The sanguine says: I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do and because if I do it, everything will be okay.
• The melancholy says: I don’t even know why I’m doing this…nothing will change, it’s probably not right, and it never will be, besides, someone is probably going to be disappointed with me.

Those are extremes, of course, and you should know that we all have a little of everything in us, so it’s very rare to find a “purebred” anything (though legend holds that they do exist!) Having said that, people do TEND to lean toward a particular trait, and this is what propels us through life.

Are you catching on?

I tend to put my energy into being sanguine, and am always surprised when the melancholy comes to town. I am absolutely withered by cholerics and just don’t understand phlegmatics. When I encounter a melancholy person, I try to cheer them up (even though I am one).

If we’re in the 100 Acre Wood, I am Tigger, Rabbit is Choleric and Eeyore is Melancholy. Perhaps Piglet is Phlegmatic, and Pooh is Supine…but I can’t be sure.

So, why am I talking about this and why does this matter in my Bariatric After Life™? As usual, I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching to figure out why I do the things I do and why I think the way I think. Naturally, this whole “personality trait thing” factored heavily in my processing because I believe it is the key to unlocking my long-term recovery from obesity. i really, really do.

Here’s why: Growing up, my feelings were hurt ALL THE TIME (which is why I ate…to make myself stop hurting). Now, this was largely because I didn’t understand the intention behind anyone’s actions and generally ASSUMED that others were being mean (for no apparent reason!) Through great persistence (and occasional bashing) from my choleric friend, Jan, I now know that when my dad (a choleric) said something was “fine,” he meant just that. In other words, there was absolutely nothing wrong with it, so it was…FINE. He wasn’t trying to hurt me or be mean. But, I didn’t know that then, so I ate.

That is because I was NOT fine with this answer, preferring to hear something more definite…like…”It’s GREAT! It’s AMAZING! I’ve never seen anything better.” Of course, a choleric wouldn’t waste time talking like that (unless it were true), but again, I didn’t know that when I was 8! I thought my daddy was tactless and rude, while he thought he was just…fine.

Growing up, I’m sure my over-sensitivity was infinitely frustrating to him. I mean, why should he have to qualify everything with an superlative? (Stupendously Fine! Magnificently Fine! Unbelievably Fine!) Did he really have to take an opinion poll to get an answer he already had? Why did he have to worry about how other people FELT every time he gave an answer? If he wanted to be mean, he’d be mean, otherwise…people just needed to know that everything was: FINE.

Poor dad.

But…I wanted harmony, while he wanted productivity. So, I ate.
I wanted peace, while he wanted action. So, I ate.
I wanted happy, while he wanted compliance. So, I ate.
He got mad, while I got hurt. So, I ate.

Sanguines are ALL ABOUT FEELINGS.
Cholerics are ALL ABOUT FACTS.
Sanguines are about MAKING PEOPLE FEEL BETTER.
Cholerics are about MAKING THINGS HAPPEN.

Of course, in those days, I didn’t understand the differences in personality types, and thoroughly believed that everyone should think, feel and behave the same way as I did.

When they didn’t, it short-circuited me. I thought they were doing it on purpose.

The sad part is, I believed it was my lot in life to be beaten up by cholerics…which makes it even WEIRDER to know that I married one! That’s right, MexiKen is a choleric (with a little melancholy thrown in for good measure.) Some would say I’m a glutton for punishment, seeing as how a choleric is like water to the sanguine’s flame, but you know what they say: we marry our dads and I’m no exception.

But really, there’s more to it than that. You see…somewhere, down inside, I am DRAWN to cholerics. I NEED someone who is stronger than me to keep me on task…to make sure I finish stuff. It’s like playing with a tiger: As long as I’ve got him by the tail, I’m okay, but eventually, I might get bitten. (The melancholy in me is certain I will eventually get bitten, but the sanguine is positive I never will…and doesn’t even want to think about it.)

So, I might need a choleric, but does a choleric need me? I mean, why exactly, would a serious choleric put up with a silly sanguine? Easy. Because they need fun in their lives and they can’t do it alone. It’s not how they tick. Imagine the king and his court jester: Make me laugh – NOW. Ha ha ha. Okay, now stop. (Yeah, that’s a choleric). Obviously, there’s a little more to it than that: They love our carefree enthusiasm and zest for life. They love how we can do stuff (without worrying a whole lot about the consequences.) They love our spontaneity. They love our silliness. But, they can’t stand our flakiness and oversensitivity. They can’t stand how we have to decide how we feel before we can even decide what to order from the menu.

Just to complicate things, every trait has its positives and negatives, and negatives from one trait often have negative affects on another (intentionally, unintentionally or otherwise). That’s where it gets really messy.

SO, with that said, can my problem with cholerics be fixed? How do I function in life if I know my negatives might rub someone else’s negatives the wrong way? What do I do if I don’t think I even HAVE negatives and can only see the negatives in others? How do people get anything done if half the population is hurt, while the other half is angry???

Well, I don’t claim to have all the answers (as I am clearly still a work in progress), but what I can gather is this: Each personality trait has to respect the other for both their strengths and weaknesses (that’s number one), but secondarily, all personality traits must work to overcome their own destructive weaknesses so that their strengths can shine through. They must each find a way to be the best version of themselves they can be.

This is a really, really tall order… one which I have learned cannot be handled alone. My personality traits are so deeply woven into my tapestry, only GOD can help me unravel the parts that aren’t stitched well. Only GOD can help me to overcome my deficiencies; only GOD can give me strength when I am weak, and enable me to embrace my shortcomings (without running away in terror). Only GOD can give me the grace to persevere through the harshness and triumph over doubt. Only GOD can give me strength NOT to eat when I hurt. Don’t misread this. I don’t think that God will “do it for me.” I believe that, in my prayerfulness and humility, HE will show me the way, grant me mercy, give me strength and offer guidance. Just like a parent.

Sounds great. How long does all of this work take? Two days? A week? Maybe a year? How about…a lifetime? Yeah, this personal growth is the gift that keeps on giving! Every person on the planet is unique, but I guarantee you, once you know and understand what makes others tick, you can solve (and even avoid) most problems pretty quickly (which can translate into recovery)….unless they are Supine…which I don’t get, so we’ll have to leave that for another post.

At any rate, this has gone on longer than a kinesiological-geometric-chemistry textbook, so I’ll end it with this: Sometimes, personality traits collide in a troubling way, but if we learn tolerance and compassion, we can (and do) work together for good.

Ultimately, we need all types to make our world go around: Cholerics, Phlegmatics, Sanguines, Melancholies, and yes…even Supine (though, I still don’t know what they do).

We need all types to make us laugh, make us work, make us think, and make us dream.

As I see it, my job (as a sanguine-melancholy) is to just do it…without worrying so much about how it feels, whether it’s perfect, or what others might think.

Your job (if you accept the challenge) is to learn more about character traits for yourself! The good news is, there are lots and lots of resources on the web. Heck, there are even TESTS you can take to help you determine what makes you tick (and gain a better understanding of your own strengths and weaknesses.)

Google:

FOUR TEMPERAMENTS (also Four Humors)

FOUR PERSONALITY TYPES

SANGUINE CHARACTER TRAITS

Trust me! You’ll get an eyeful (and a brainful).

By the way, sometimes, I misinterpret stuff or just plain get it wrong, so if I mischaracterized something (Jan), feel free to tell me. Just be nice about it. Oh, and I’m eager to hear your personal tales, so if you know who you are, let me know how you’ve learned to be a better YOU! Success is about learning from others, so be bold and share!

When I was a little girl, I ADORED Tinkerbell. My brother even bought me a little necklace with a tiny figurine of her on it (she was painted white, I think, and the chain was silver). There was just something magical about the way she flitted about, and of course, I loved her little fairy dust trail…and the way she pouted with Peter Pan when she didn’t get her way. I distinctly remember watching in utter fascination as she tapped the top of Sleeping Beauty’s castle during opening of The Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday nights….Maybe I identified with her a little bit, I’m not sure, but one thing I do know is, my dad used to call me “Stinkerbell” (heaven knows I’m not going to get into the particulars of why he called me that, so don’t even ask…)

ANYWAY — I have this memory from way, way back…I must have been about 4, but I can’t be sure. I was at Disneyland with my mom, dad and brother, and it was “very late” (probably 8 o’clock – at least an hour past my bedtime!) We were on Main Street, surrounded by a crush of people. Now, from my perspective (from way down there), I was surrounded by a forest of legs and rears, but those things were connected to real people – whom my dad could clearly see (from way up there).

So, there we were, rushing to get…somewhere – (who knew where and far be it from me to ask, because my dad was tugging me along so fast, my feet weren’t touching the ground and I couldn’t catch my breath.) At some point, I clearly remember hearing that I needed to look up because Tinkerbell would be flying from the Matterhorn! This was very big news, as evidenced by all of the rushing to get to THE prime viewing location.

With mom and brother setting the pace up front, and I in tow (mostly airborne) behind my dad, we hurried to get to THE PLACE where I’d be able to see HER fly! Apparently, all of my dreams would come true (or something), if only I’d look.

Well, somewhere between “here” and “there,” I encountered a very unkind curb and I hit the ground with a splat. Don’t worry, though, my dad didn’t leave me there to be plowed over by the human avalanche: He snatched me by my elbow, nearly pulling my arm out of the socket, and willed me to WATCH TINKERBELL.

But, I looked down, while she flew over, and the rest is history.

I MISSED TINKERBELL.

Of course, it was my own, damned fault. I should have hurried. I should have run faster. I should have watched where I was going. I should have seen Tinkerbell so my life would be complete.

But I blew it, and all I had to show for it was a bloodied knee and a bunch of sticky tears streaming down my face.

At least, that’s MY version of the story.

Now, as an adult, I can tell you with great certainty that my dad wanted me to see a really wonderful thing, and I know that he probably felt I was dragging my feet (pretending to be tired so he would hoist me onto his shoulders and carry me – which frustrated him to no end). I know that he never intended to hurt me, and that his disappointment was not directed at me. My dad was just like any other parent…he was sad because I had missed a magical moment.

But, the 4-year old can’t understand that…even 44 years later. The 44-year old carries with her a misconstrued truth shrouded in undefined fear. You see, 4-year old Cari, being dragged (against her will) through a scary tangle of angst and legs, was afraid she would fall. She was afraid because she couldn’t see what was coming. She was afraid that her dad would be mad at her and not love her because she was stubborn and missed the big thing.

Well…guess what? After my tumble, he was mad…and I was scarred for life…all because I didn’t understand his reaction and filled in the blanks the best way I knew how: With fear, uncertainty, guilt, blame and shame.

I did it to myself. I deserved it. I was to blame. Shame on me for missing Tinkerbell.

And that is how things go awry while people are growing up. That is how we become the adults we are…by witnessing other people’s adult experiences as children, and then projecting our ignorant and incomplete child’s perspective onto our own adult experiences. The sad thing is, we don’t always know we’re doing it.

Until we come to a place…maybe in therapy…where we realize that we’ve been seeing things as we thought they were, and not as they really are.

So, why the sudden memory of Tinkerbell?

Well, I believe I have been living my life, fighting to keep up with everyone. I believe I have allowed people to rush me so I would be somewhere they thought I should be because I believed that they knew better, and I needed to go with the flow. That’s why I followed them – I struggled to keep up…struggled NOT to fall, struggled not to fail…I just wanted to be okay so everyone would like me. I heard them say, “Do it now! Do it like this! Don’t miss out!….You’ll be sorry…”

Those horrible words have churned over and over in my head and I have allowed them to scare and propel me for my whole life: You’ll be sorry if you don’t keep up.

Why??? Because…

• I didn’t want to disappoint anyone.
• I didn’t want anyone to be mad at me.
• I didn’t want to do what they wanted me to do, but…I thought this was what I was SUPPOSED TO DO.
• I thought that, by keeping up with people, I’d finally see Tinkerbell.

How wrong I was. Think about it for a moment…

A lot of people think you can only see Tinkerbell from ONE vantage point and for ONE moment in time. They fear that if you don’t see her when they think you should see her, then you won’t ever see her at all. Maybe that’s true. Maybe I will be sorry. Sometimes I will miss stuff because I don’t keep up, BUT — You know what? (This is a biggie): I have learned that sometimes I don’t want to see Tinkerbell, I just think I do, because I don’t want to let anyone down.

In case you were wondering, that is what a people-pleaser says: I don’t want to disappoint you. Yes, sometimes perfectionists say that too, but other times, well…the people-pleaser is terrified that someone won’t love them if they don’t keep up.

Ouch. Emotional growth is a funny thing…just when you think you’ve got it mastered, something else pops up to take the place of that nasty behavior you just got rid of.

But I digress.

Here’s what I need you to know (and I need to remember): Recovery happens one breath at a time, and sometimes, you run out of breath. Sometimes, you chase something you think you’re supposed to be chasing, and then you realize…when you stop to hold that stitch in your side and catch your breath, that you just might be chasing someone else’s Tinkerbell — OR — you can get there at your own pace and you won’t miss a thing! Just because you don’t see her when everyone else does…doesn’t mean you’ll never get to see her; it means you’ll see her in your own time. (Although…if you’re stubborn, it could take longer…just sayin’.)

Since I love to end things on a happy note, I will tell you that I eventually did get to see Tinkerbell, and I didn’t trip over a curb in the process. I planned and positioned myself where I knew I needed to be and – miracle of miracles – I saw her fly from the Matterhorn! Okay, I saw her wires too, but that’s not the point. The point is, I found a way to do it without falling down in the process. And, no, I don’t think I “let anyone down,” either.

Isn’t that really the goal in our Bariatric After Life™? – No…I don’t mean we aren’t supposed to to fall or let anyone down! I mean:

• WE have to set our pace.
• WE have to set our sights,
• WE have to go for it.
• BUT – NOT because we want to please someone else.
• NOT because we are afraid someone will get mad at us…

We have to do it because…we get to experience the magic that we all deserve.

OBESITY ISN’T FUNNY

By now, I’m thinking that most of you have already read Dr. John Kelly’s unfortunate article, where he used one-liners to “find humor” on the subject of obesity. If you haven’t read it, I’m not going to post a link to it because I think enough people have already read and responded to it, and there is really nothing new that could be added to the discussion.

That article (and the reaction from the obese community) inspired today’s post, because everyone has the right to be unfunny.

Let’s begin:

COMEDY IS NOT A LAUGHING MATTER

Comedy is important to me. Being funny takes guts and you have to be a risk taker to pull it off well. Sometimes that works out great; other times…not so much. Just take a poll of people who know me, and ask them to describe me in 5 words. I guarantee you, the word “Funny” will be near the top (and might be repeated). It’s who I am, and it’s a part of myself that I’ve always embraced — especially when I was obese. You see, being funny was a great way to deflect attention from my obvious *indelicate condition.* Like most comedians, I used my humor as protection from the world, figuring that if I said something derogatory about myself first, others would realize that nothing they could say would hurt me. I was offensively offensive. (Or defensively defensive. Or defensively offensive…I can’t be sure).

However you define it, you and I know it was a lie, but that didn’t stop me from believing it.

LAUGHING UNTIL YOU CRY

Have you ever laughed so hard, tears streamed down your face and you couldn’t see straight? There’s a fine line between humor and anger — at least in my experience. The thing that truly makes something “funny” is the kernel of truth behind the joke. We feel better when we can laugh at an uncomfortable truth; it diffuses the tension. And, any comedian worth his salt will string you along, dropping bread crumbs of your life experiences so you can follow the joke to it’s “inevitably” funny conclusion. He’ll invite you to agree with him so you can laugh with him. How many times have you listened to a comedian and said, “Oh my gosh! That’s happened to me!” or, “That is SO TRUE!”

Basically, the comedian’s job is to make sure we are on his side, in order to keep the laughs coming.

WHEN THE JOKE FALLS FLAT
(Alternately known as, “Oh Crap!” or “I Take it Back!”)

Unfortunately, humor is not a guaranteed thing, and what one person finds funny, another might find disgusting or offensive; what I laugh about might not be what you laugh about, which is why there are so many forms of humor: Visual, slapstick, potty, crass, edgy, whimsical, goofy, biting, audible, sardonic, droll, juvenile, etc. Ever think about the number of comedy movies out there? Trust me, I’m a very discerning comic, and I admit that I don’t find much of the contemporary movies to be funny. But, just watch my daughter and husband viewing “Jackass” and you’ll see what I mean. I’m left scratching my head, going “What’s so funny about someone getting locked in a car with a swarm of angry bees?” and my family is saying, “Let’s watch that again! That’s freaking HYSTERICAL!”

Comedians put themselves out there and hope that everything they say or do will be funny. When it isn’t, it can be downright uncomfortable. Ever seen a joke go over like a lead balloon? At best, you’ll hear uncomfortable laughter and throat-clearing; at worst, you’ll get a roomful of boos, or some walk-outs. Comedy isn’t pretty. But, that doesn’t stop us from trying. Maybe we’re slow learners, but as a comic, I LIVE for the laugh. I LOVE it when someone gets my humor. I LOVE it when I can make my best friend laugh so hard, she snorts cherries through her nose and begs for mercy (as best she can between guffaws.) I’m relentless and sadistically string her along — waiting for the moment when the laughter will die down (meaning that she is recovering) just long enough to spring my next salvo on her. It’s my favorite pastime.

But, guess what? Not everybody likes my humor. Some people think I can be mean, while others are sure I’m just trying to be superior by saying things so cerebral, no one will ever get the joke. Trust me, it’s the “Jackass” crowd; I’m convinced…but anyway…

WHEN LAUGHTER IS NOT THE BEST MEDICINE

If you will recall, I began this post with mention of Dr. John Kelly and his unfortunate article. I’ll be honest: I experienced a broad range of emotions when I first read it. Initially, I was disgusted. I remember saying that I thought the man was a “pig.” I might have even said he was a “stupid pig” (I’m not sure). Next, I was dismayed, because I didn’t think the hurtful one liners were even FUNNY. It’s one thing to say something mean that’s funny, and quite another to say something that’s both mean AND unfunny.

Fortunately, I didn’t stop there. I decided to write the “stupid” doctor a letter — but took great care not to lambast or insult him. After all, it’s pretty hard to educate someone you’ve just eviscerated. People are funny that way…

Anyway, here is why I took the time to write the letter:

1. I felt he deserved to be treated the same way I would want to be treated if I found myself in a similarly untenable position.
2. I knew he was already getting run through the meat grinder by angry obese people, and didn’t want to “pig pile” on him.
3. I really wanted an explanation, so I could better understand the “why” behind the article.
4. I truly believed he had made a catastrophic, yet innocent, error; he had a momentary lapse of judgment; he made a huge mistake. I wanted to help him understand why he was getting attacked.

Guess what? He wrote me back — and boy, did I feel his pain. He’d been insulted, verbally assaulted, lambasted, grilled, belittled and yes, even threatened. Why? Because he wrote an INSENSITIVE and UNFUNNY article. He poked fun at an easy target. Everyone laughs at the fat person, right? Sadly, I think what made the situation the worst was this simple fact: HE IS A DOCTOR, and he should *know better.* That’s right, he, more than just about anyone else, should understand the pain of this disease.

Guess what? He’s human and he screwed up.

But…he OWNED it — immediately. He fell on his sword and did everything he could to stuff that genie back into the bottle. But, of course, just like when we (weight loss surgery people) eat something we shouldn’t, and get horribly sick, we can’t undo the damage; we can only try to do better next time and HOPE we are given a second chance. Sadly, that is not at all what happened. He wasn’t given a second chance, and apparently, to some letter writers, only death by a thousand cuts would come close to serving as penance for his grievous sins.

Here’s what confuses me: We (as obese and formerly obese people), demand compassion and understanding. We scream and holler about how insensitive people can be; how rude and judgmental they are; how mean and unforgiving they are. We don’t let anyone get away with ANYTHING that smacks of insensitivity to the obese population.

So, if that’s the case, why wasn’t Dr. Kelly treated with the same compassion and understanding we demand? Why wasn’t he given a chance to explain himself, acknowledge his error, and apologize?

I don’t know about you, but I was given a second-chance when I had weight loss surgery.

I was treated by a doctor who was probably just as frustrated as Dr. Kelly with having to operate on an obese patient — but he operated on me anyway — just as Dr. Kelly does.

Fortunately, there is a lesson to this mess:

We  Should All Be Perfect and Never Make Mistakes.

Wait. Maybe that *isn’t* the lesson, although, to read the hate mail Dr. Kelly received, you’d surely *think* it was.

Let me try that again…

The moral of the story is this:

• Treat others as you wish to be treated
• Take the time to understand what you do not understand
• Make decisions based upon accurate information
• Forgive when forgiveness is honestly requested

Pretty simple, don’t you think?

I am a fan of Dr. Kelly — the man who made a serious mistake.
The man who offended a million people in one fell swoop.
The man who tried to be funny, but wasn’t.
The man who saves people’s live through surgery.
The man who apologized for the error of his ways.
The man who is not being given a second chance.

I’m not asking you to be a fan; I’m asking you to forgive and allow him to make amends. I truly believe he is a “convert to the cause.” He wants to join the battle against bias, stigmatism and criticism of the obese. I think that, if you’ll give him a chance, you might hear something you actually agree with.

At the end of the day, no one issued me death threats when I was obese; I believe Dr. Kelly deserves the same consideration. He is, after all, only human.

What we say is as important as how we say it, and what we hear is most important of all.

I’ve spent a lot of time dissecting my self-talk. I think about how I speak to myself – what tone I use, whether or not I’m condemning myself, and whether I’m being kind, compassionate and loving, or mean, unforgiving and shaming. You’ve heard it said that you should talk to yourself the way you would talk to your friend, and if you wouldn’t say it to them – DON’T say it to yourself.

I’ve done pretty well with cleaning up my self-trash-talking (although I still beat myself up and take a little longer than I’d like to express forgiveness), but something happened this past weekend that really threw me for a loop.

WARNING: I’m going to say something that is significant and pertinent to MYSELF, so (as my trusted friend and business partner, Dr. Connie Stapleton always says…) “don’t hear what I’m NOT saying.”

With that said, here’s where my tale begins: While I was at the final Obesity Help event of the year (Thank you, Long Island) I found myself doing things that I don’t normally do. For starters, I went out to dinner. Twice. And, I ate something other than a salad. Now, you know my travails and you’ve heard all of my pouch woes, so my food choices are often less about tremendous “will-power” and more about what will actually “go down the gullet” (and stay there.) Typically speaking, there just isn’t a great deal out there that I can really “feast upon,” so I tend NOT to go there (if you know what I mean.)

As a result of wanting to be able to eat well when I travel, I pack (Read: schlep) tons of protein with me. I bring shakes, drinks, bars and soy chips. Yup. I’m a walking processed protein factory, but that’s only because it’s über hard to travel with lettuce, vegetables, cottage cheese, salsa, greek yogurt and feta cheese!

But, I digress.

As I said, this time, I did things I don’t normally do. I went out to eat, and I ate. I made healthy choices (sesame encrusted ahi tuna, antipasto and veggies). For the food, anyway. Here’s where things got squirrelly: I had a drink – no, not water. I had a crazy martini drink. I loved it and told myself that, since I never do it, it’s okay. I don’t have a problem with alcohol, and I always keep it in check, so…no biggie.

Except that, later in the evening, I had ANOTHER DRINK. Yes, Me.
Okay…I bowed to some “peer pressure” (which is no justification, but it makes a super great excuse.) Anyway, that was that and I collapsed into bed for the evening. No harm, no foul, though I was a little worse for the wear.

That might have been the end of it…had I not gone out to dinner. AGAIN. THIS TIME, I had TWO DRINKS. Yes, you read that correctly. I ordered two ridiculous drinks…and got loopy. I didn’t like the way I felt and I wished that I could undo what I’d done. But, I couldn’t. So, I was left with my poor choices…and my self-loathing.

It took me until the next morning to figure out the lesson in the behavior. You see, I try to live my life as a positive example for others – and that’s a lot of pressure. No, I don’t try to be perfect, but I do my best to model healthy behaviors that I believe in. I am honest about my shortcomings (hello, Oreos?) and don’t believe in being someone I’m not. I have values that I live by and respect.

So, what’s the deal here? On the face of it, I can tell myself that I’m ashamed that I did this in front of people who expected more of me (but, hat’s the easy thing to say). I can’t undo it, and I’m finding it really hard to forgive myself for my poor choice – though I know forgiveness will come.

Here is where the self-talk comes into play: For so long, I told myself that I wouldn’t drink any alcohol because I “don’t need it,” and because “I don’t feel it’s appropriate” for my healthy lifestyle. I mean, if I say no to sugar in my food, how can I say “okay” to sugar in booze? It’s dishonest.

In other words, I didn’t drink because I shouldn’t drink, which really translated into something that sounded more like, “I CAN’T DRINK.”

Hmmm…

• I am lying to myself when I say it’s “not that bad,” because…it really is that bad.
• I am lying to myself when I say, “I can do whatever I want,” because I know that just because I can, doesn’t mean I should.
• I am lying to myself when I say I can’t, because ultimately, I know that I can.

Chalk it up to personal accountability and taking responsibility for my body. But, make no mistake: Drinking is a choice. It’s not a “don’t” or “can’t.” And that’s where the whole self-talk thing really comes into play. For a long time, I told myself something I knew wasn’t true. Just like a child, I said, “don’t tell me I can’t, because I can.” This weekend, I paid a price, and my self-respect took a hit.

The good news is, it’s only a wasted experience if I DON’T learn anything from it – and I have. Hey, if I have to shovel this much horse-poo, there’d better be a pony under here somewhere, right?

Okay, I know what you’re saying: But, Cari, where is the bigger lesson in all of this???

Here it is: If I CAN drink, but CHOOSE not to, then the same must hold true for FOOD. I CAN eat Oreos, cheap carbs and unhealthy foods, but I must CHOOSE not to because, doing so will compromise my personal values.

Phew..that is some heavy stuff…and I won’t say I’m “there yet” (because I’m not) but I am closer than I’ve ever been  – AND I believe I’ve made a breakthrough. I’m on my way.

Here’s the take-away? I am (finally) learning to hear what I’m actually saying, and learning to say what I actually mean.

How do you talk to yourself and what do you hear yourself saying? Do you have a “sliding scale” of acceptable things you put in your mouth? Do you tell yourself, “Hey, I don’t eat this, so I should be able to have a little of that…?” I’d love to hear the conversations you have with yourself, so leave me a comment and let me know.

When I was a young working girl, I had to dress up everyday for my job at the investment bank on the 22nd floor of a really tall building in downtown Los Angeles. I wore stockings, heels and suits, dresses or skirts. I never wore pants – it wasn’t acceptable, but that was fine, because my “butt-to-waist” ratio made it challenging to find a good fit anyway. Of course, in those days, spandex-enhanced pants were not really en vogue, (meaning there was no “give” or expansion to accommodate the spread). Needless to say, pants were uncomfortable.

Still…I did dress up. Every. Day. (And that really is the point of this blog).

To put this into proper perspective, I was not making a lot of money as a secretary, and, at that time anyway, Payless only sold tennis shoes, so I generally spent about $45 for a pair of shoes…That was a LOT of money, considering rent was $465!

Well, the other day, I was reminiscing about the “good old days” and remembered one of my VERY-MOST-FAVORITE-PAIR-OF-SHOES. Ever. They were taxi-cab yellow patent leather pumps with a sexy vamp and the perfect heel. Some people called them “school bus gold,” but that always mortified me, because it meant someone thought I was BIG…like a school bus.

Seriously. I thought that.

My shoes were way prettier than these, and they didn't have pointy toes, but these are for effect.

Anyway, I had two things that matched those shoes: One was a cute cotton dress with a matching fabric belt, (that I always thought made me look fat…isn’t that funny?) and the other was a sexy satin goldenrod yellow blouse that I wore with a black pencil skirt. But…those were the ONLY TWO THINGS that those shoes matched and, in those days, you didn’t go for a “POP” of color like you do now; you went for “MATCHY-MATCHY.”

They were a lot like these, only they weren't suede – they were shiny – and I don't recall ever standing on a sheepskin throw in mine.

BUT, back to the shoes. In reality, I must confess that they weren’t patent leather at all. They were pleather. That’s right: PLASTIC-LEATHER. And, they were tight. Incredibly tight. Incredibly, painfully tight. From the instant I put them on, until I took them off, they pinched my toes and hurt like nobody’s business. Yes, I bought them like that, and yes, they hurt in the store! Tragically, these stupid shoes hurt so much, I wasn’t even able to walk in them for the first hour. Fortunately, it would get better and eventually, my toes would fall asleep so the pain would localize, and I could wince my way quite convincingly through my day without anyone having the slightest hint that I was uncomfortable.

That’s what I did: I shimmied along in my über-sexy yellow plastic shoes and matching dress and acted is if I hadn’t a care in the world (because that’s what beautiful did. They ignored their discomfort.) Although…in retrospect, I cannot begin to understand HOW they tolerated the pain, except to say that they weren’t trying to balance 180 pounds on a 1/4″ diameter heel stud. Yeah, that was definitely how they did it.

Right about now, you’re asking, “What on EARTH could possibly have motivated you to spend money you didn’t have on shoes that didn’t fit in the store and weren’t going to stretch once you got them home?”

In a word? VANITY.

That’s right: VANITY.

I had always heard that you had to suffer for your beauty, so that’s what I did. Never mind those naysayers who warned me that I’d “pay the ultimate price later” when I was old (40) and couldn’t wear heels anymore. They told me I’d end up in sensible shoes…like nurses wear. And that I’d have bunions, calluses and misshapen feet.

But I DIDN’T CARE.

I wanted what I wanted — no matter the price.

What made me think it was okay to suffer in silence? Why did I think I needed to HURT for the sake of beauty? As I sit here today (in more comfortable, though much higher shoes), I wonder if it was the evil “over-compensation” at work. You know, the feeling that, since I was overweight, I had to pay the price by suffering. Perhaps I believed I wasn’t worth more, so I’d take what I could get and enjoy the compliments.

Or, maybe I just WANTED to fit in so desperately, it didn’t matter how extreme the consequences…

There might be something to that…after all it’s a skill I perfected in my obese years…the art of ignoring the consequences.

I wanted it, and that’s all that mattered.

Other people ate junk food; so did I.
Other people did whatever they wanted; so did I.
Who really cared?It was only LIFE…and I had so much more of it ahead of me, best to live it while I was young.

And here I am.
Older than 40.
Recovering from obesity and food addiction.
And still wearing high heels.

So, what changed?

Well, I think I finally figured out that I don’t have to overcompensate for my deficiencies anymore, because my goal is not perfection. I don’t have to suffer because I think it is expected of me, and I don’t have to wear shoes that pinch. (Unless I want to because they are so, darned sexy

The reality is, I am who I am, and life is too short to suffer and try to pretend I am someone that I’m not.

Why, if I had those shoes today, I’d proudly call them SCHOOL BUS YELLOW and not worry that someone might think I LOOK like a school bus in them!

What matters most?

Well…I think I’m gonna go with comfortable peace on this one. Yes, comfortable peace. That is the goal, and it doesn’t involve ill-fitting, taxi-cab yellow pumps or dresses that make me feel ugly.

Okay, I do miss those shoes.

Sometimes.

My binge addiction is like a teenager who parties when the parents are away for the weekend. You know how it goes, the parents leave and say, “Now, don’t have a bunch of people over and absolutely NO PARTIES.” And the teenager says, “I know. I won’t. Gosh, don’t you trust me?”

So, the parents leave (thinking they’ll have to learn to trust their teenager eventually) and the kid is thinking, “OMG, I thought they’d NEVER leave. Now, let me send a Facebook Group Invitation to all 1500 of my closest friends…”

What happens while the parents are away is not pretty and definitely does not fall under the heading of “good, clean fun.”

Nope, when the parents return (early, usually) they are met with a scene straight out of Animal House: There are pizza boxes strewn everywhere, Doritos crunched into the carpet, and those red plastic “SOLO” cups with stale beer on every piece of furniture in sight. There are bottles of flat Coke, empty chip bags and paper plates with orange grease spots on them.

OH. MY. GOD. WHAT. HAPPENED. HERE???!!!

One thing is certain: The parents were not at home when the eating orgy ensued, and they DEFINITELY did not get to ‘enjoy’ the festivities…BUT, THEY WILL HAVE TO CLEAN UP AFTER IT.

I know, I know…fellow parents are out there saying, “Oh no. I’M not cleaning ANYTHING up. My KID is gonna to do THAT.” But, we all know that the kid is passed out on the futon in the den, and besides, he’ll deny everything, blame everyone, and do a lousy job of putting things back in order.

But, that’s not all: That antique that’s been in the family for generations? Broken. And the couch cushions? Torn. The carpet? Stained. Nothing is going to be the way it was…but it has to be returned to some semblance of order.

So, why am I telling you about a “party-while-the-parents-are-away” weekend? Because my stubbornly recalcitrant binge addiction is a lot like that teenager: IT WANTS TO PARTY EVEN THOUGH I TELL IT NOT TO.

Guess who gets to “come home” to home to the carnage?

Guess who gets to stumble across chalk outlines (where the box of Zingers WAS), clean Oreo cookie crumbs off the counter, and tear down the yellow police tape blocking the refrigerator door?

You guessed it: ME.

Bingeing gets the party and I get the hangover.

My Party-Girl-Binger wants me to believe we’ve had good times – BUT WE HAVEN’T AND THE PARTY IS OVER. The bingeing teenager is officially GROUNDED, and it’s time for the adult to hire a “house sitter” (more like a therapist, trained in addiction and recovery), clear out the pantry, and get back to an OA meeting.

Can anyone else relate?

Here is a Little Life Lesson for Living a Happier Bariatric After Life™

I have always hated my legs; they just aren’t good looking.  Sadly, I was not one of those women whose legs stayed skinny and shapely while the rest of me got bigger. Okay, that’s not entirely true: I had an hourglass figure…but all the sand ran to the bottom.

Anyway, in this episode, I figured out that it’s not okay to decide that, just because *I* don’t like something, *no one* else can like it either. When you set up boundaries, and make rules about how someone can love you, the real loser is YOU.